


blood on my hands

by 2space_lesbo1



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, One Shot, Oof this one is rough, anger issues, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2space_lesbo1/pseuds/2space_lesbo1
Summary: Yancy was angry.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	blood on my hands

**Author's Note:**

> eeeyyyy another yancy fic yyaaaayyyy
> 
> blame my friend tyler for this one. he made me really want to write this.
> 
> so warnings: LOTS OF BLOOD, anger, an episode, and a child killing his parents 
> 
> so
> 
> yeah
> 
> also was kind of a vent. felt nice to write

Yancy has had a bad day. Okay, no, scratch that. He’s had a horrible day. Every little thing has annoyed him to no end, causing his blood to boil and his teeth to grind together as he tried his best to tune out the world around him. That is what his therapist has told him to do when he was feeling angry; take deep breaths and think about something else. Ignore what is making you angry. 

But he has had no such luck doing any of those steps, and now the palms of his hands were bleeding because he was digging his nails into them a bit too hard. He curses as he enters his home, wiping the blood off on the black and white shirt he was wearing. That is probably going to make his mom annoyed with him- she had just bought this shirt for him, and it was one of his only nice shirts left- but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too angry to focus clearly, and so he doesn’t even notice the way his palms sting every time he wipes them down the front of the shirt. 

Man, he could go for a nice plate of spaghetti. He’s pretty sure that’s the only thing that could turn this day around for him. Spaghetti was, after all, his favorite meal. Especially if his mother cooked it; she was the best cook that he knew.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, smelling something cooking in the kitchen already. He always got home around dinner time because of his tutoring after school keeping him in later than most other students. Though, today, he was just too pissed to focus if he’d actually gone, so he’d instead hung around the school campus until the late release buses arrived to take them home. 

That bus ride did nothing but raise his anger and stress levels. Everyone on it was just so loud and annoying, screaming at one another and making the air thick and hot and sweaty. Yancy had situated himself near the front- the back is where the loudest and most crazy kids regularly sat- and tried to block all the noise out by plugging his ears and leaning his head against the window. But, that proved futile, and his world got blurred together as he went into what his therapist calls “sensory overload”. 

He didn’t know what that meant really, or did he care, but he knew he was going into one now. He could recognize the feeling of his muscles tensing and his head banging and his palms sweating and his eyes burning as the world around him collapsed in on itself. It made it difficult to breathe, and his lungs ached for fresh air.

He was only able to breathe again once he ran from the bus, two blocks away from his usual stop, and took deep breaths. It helped the overload go away after a few minutes of breathing, cold air prickling at his skin, calming him, but it did not make his anger go away. That stuck around, curling in his gut like a snake waiting to strike.

He walked the rest of the way home, and by the time he arrived, his feet were aching and the snake had traveled to his chest, coiling around his heart. He was fuming, ready to snap at the first person or thing that got near him. 

Now, he was stepping into the kitchen, calming himself down as he went. The food smelled great- he hopes it’s spaghetti. The snake remains, but he’s calmed it down enough to speak with his mom. He hates snapping at his mom. His dad, not so much, but never his mom. She was too sweet, and always believed in him even when he seemed like a wasted basket case.

“Hey, Mama,” he greeted, clearing his throat to rid it of its tightness. He walks to the table and hops up on it, swinging his feet as they hang just above the ground. He frowns. His growth spurt hadn’t made him as tall as he would have liked. 

“Hello, Yancy dear,” his mother replied, smiling down at the pot she was stirring. Yancy takes another deep whiff of the smell, grinning. It smelt like spaghetti, alright. The snake lowers its head. “How was your day?

The snake raises it again at the question, hissing at the thought. But Yancy shrugs, picking at one of the cracks in the ancient wooden table. They hadn’t been able to get a replacement for it in years, and they were overdue for one. This one was falling apart and covered in cracks. It probably didn’t help that Yancy was sitting on it, but he didn’t are too much. He only worried about taking care of the things his mother gave him specifically or the things she told him to care for. If she were to tell him to get off the table, he would. But she hadn’t, so he leaned back on his hands.

“Not the best, honestly,” he replied, kicking his toes together half-heartedly. His shoes, which he’s had a couple of years, have stayed in pretty good shape. He’s done his best to keep them looking good, after all. “Everyone was annoyin’ as hell.”

“Language, dear,” his mother reprimanded without looking up. He says a quick apology. “I’m sorry it was such a bad day for you. Tomorrow should be better.” She always said that.

“How was your day, Mama?” he asked, and then finally notices the blood he’d gotten on the front of his shirt. “Shit,” he cursed, pushing to his feet and walking to the sink. He hadn’t even realized he’d done that! His blackouts were getting worse by the day. He’d have to speak to his therapist about that next.

“Language,” his mother said again, throwing a glare at his back. He says another quick apology and starts wetting a paper towel, trying and failing to wipe the blood stains from the white parts of the shirt. His mother frowns. “Did you already ruin the new shirt I got you, Yance? I told you that one was expensive.”

“I know, I’m sorry, Mama,” Yancy said, and the snake was rearing its head. How dare she speak to him like that when he already knew he’d made a stupid mistake? He was already beating himself up over it, she didn’t need to do the same. That was just wrong! “I’m not sure how I did it.”

His mother moves to stand beside him, and her eyes widen. “Is that blood?” she asked, and quickly snatches his hands, turning the palms over so she could see them. She looks up at him, her eyes wide. “Yance, what did you do?”

Yancy pulls his hands away and waves her away. The snake is snarling, its teeth bared. He clenched his own jaws, teeth grinding together, head beginning to pound. He needed to calm down. “It’s nothing, Mama,” he said, keeping his tone flat. He would not snap at her. He could control himself enough to not snap at one person in the least, goddammit. “Was an accident.” He pauses, and smiles at her, though they both know it’s forced. “What’s for dinner, though? I’m starvin’!”

She frowns up at him, but she must see the desperation in his eyes, because she turns and returns to the pot she is stirring. She’s learned over the years not to push him on matters like these, especially if he didn’t want to talk about it. It could easily trigger an episode, and those were fun for no one.

“Nothing special,” she said, forcing her own casual tone back into her voice. Yancy appreciates that.

“Your food is always delicious, Mama!” Yancy exclaimed, trying to be happy. He could be happy. His head wasn’t pounding, his blood wasn’t boiling and his teeth weren’t flattening from his hard he was grinding them. He was happy! “I hope it’s spaghetti tonight! I’ve been looking forward to having some of your spaghetti all day!”

His mother glances at him through the corner of her eye, her shoulders suddenly stiffening. Why was she acting like that? Like she was scared of him? Didn’t she know he was happy, and that he would never hurt her even if he wasn’t? The snake tightens its hold on his heart, and it’s becoming hard to breathe, his own muscles tightening. Why did it suddenly feel so tense? Weren’t they both happy?

“I was making fettuccine…” his mother said quietly, trailing off. 

The room is filled with silence then. Yancy’s eye twitched, and the snake strikes.

He grabs the nearby knife, stabbing it in the counter surface. His mother jumps as he drags it across, dropping the ladle she’d been holding. He lifts his gaze to her face, her features beginning to blur, the edges of his vision clouding with red. Why was she still acting scared? Why was she so fucking scared goddammit!

“Why the fuck… would you make… fettucini…” he snarled, his words as sharp as the knife he was yanking from the hole he’d made in the counter. When had he made that hole? He’d thought he was just slicing it back and forth. The blade reflects the light pouring in from the window, and he could see the fear growing in his mother’s eyes. That just makes him angrier. Why would she be afraid of him! He’s nothing to be afraid of for fuck’s sake! 

“Yance… puh-please calm- calm down,” his mother stammered, a sob breaking her words apart. Tears were streaming down her face as she takes a step back from, stumbling as he steps towards her, the knife hanging at his side. Why was she fucking crying? Why was she backing away from him? Why the FUCK is she afraid of him?! “You need- need to calm down, sw- sweetie.” Her voice is turning to begging. “I- I can make you- spaghetti, if- if you want it!”

“Stop acting scared!” he screamed suddenly, and he doesn’t miss the way she flinches, the way more tears explode from her eyes. His heart is racing, hammering against his chest, causing his blood to burn, his entire being to burn. “It’s pissing me the fuck off!” He slams the knife into the counter again, and his mother yelps.

That was it.

“I-I’m so-”

She didn’t get to finish.

The knife was acting on its own, lodging itself in her throat. Her blood sprays onto his hand, onto his face, onto his shirt. The shirt he’d just cleaned, too! Fucking bitch. She was screaming, pleading, and quivering under him, her back digging into the counter as he pins her there, twisting the knife further into her flesh. The red was fully filling his vision, and he couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel or think. 

She didn’t get to be scared of him. She didn’t get to stain the shirt he’d just cleaned. She didn’t get to act like a fucking coward towards him, when he was doing everything in his goddamn power to be good.

The knife sinks further, and he drags it downwards, closer to her chest. He pulls it out, and then brings it down against, directly into the ribs in her chest and the heart beneath. His mother sputters on her own blood, chokes on it, her body quivering and arching, before it goes still, limp in his hold.

How dare she make him hold him up, like she was better than him!

He stabs the same spot repeatedly, the blood splashing on him, on the floor, on his sanity. It was warm and thick and sticky, and it was covering his arms and chest and face. But he kept going, until a large, gaping hole was left in her chest, sliced flesh and broken bones sticking in the middle of the mess.

He leans backwards- when did he end up on the floor?- and draws a deep breath through his mouth, some of the blood- why was there so much?- slides into his mouth, onto his tongue. He spits it out, and drops the knife- how was it so coated?- leaning against one of the cabinets, the spilled pot of noodles forgotten beside him- when had he knocked it over?

It takes him an hour to calm himself down. 

And when he does, his eyes landing on the dead, mutilated corpse of his mother- how did that happen did he do that why did he do thath0ow did he do that how did he not realize he did that what the fuck what the fuck what tfukc oh god oh god oh god- he screams at the top of his lungs. The scream tears at his throat, causing it to bleed, but he doesn’t stop, until he sobs, crawling to the body. He cups both of her cheeks, throws up when he sees the holes in her neck and chest and stomach- oh god oh god he did this he did this he did this- and cries and cries and screams.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he sobbed, burying his face into his mother’s hair, body trembling, heart screaming.

His father comes home shortly later, finds him cradling his mother’s body, sees him covered in her blood, and the knife coated in the red liquid. He screams as well, points an accusing finger at him.

“I knew you would do this!” he yelled, and the sound tears at Yancy’s ears. Why couldn’t he just be left to mourn his mother? He already knew he’d done this. “I always knew you were a fucking monster!”

Yancy screamed, hand flying to the knife of its own volition, and tackles his father. Years of anger built up explodes in a single moment, and he cuts into his father’s stomach, lets the guts spill out. Watches his father choke on his blood. Watches him bleed out and die, a crumpled mess on the floor that had been clean seconds before.

He was covered in blood. 

So much of it was drying on his arms and legs and face. It was making it hard to move, to breathe, to think.

He did the only thing he could think of doing.

He calls the police.

**Author's Note:**

> f


End file.
